Intracte 1
by Ceathra
Summary: Some of the events between acts one and two of DA2. Contains spoilers up through the end of act one of the game, and also fHawke/Anders fluff.
1. Chapter 1

"D'you know I killed an ogre b'fore I ever got to Kirkwall?"

Varrick sighed. "Yes, Hawke. You told me three times."

Kennit Hawke did not seem to hear him. "Was jus' me an' Bethy an' Aveline… killed him. Dead," she thumped her tankard on the table for emphasis, then sighed, her shoulders slumping. "I c'n kill ogres an' demons an'… what was that rock thing?"

"Rock wraith," Varrick supplied helpfully.

"An'… an', an', an' rock wraiths. An' I couldn't stop a few stupid sodding templars from taking my sister!" The tankard was empty now. Varrick caught Edwina's eye and shook his head slightly, signaling the bar maid not to refill Kennit's drink again. The dwarf did not relish the thought of trying to carry an unconscious Hawke back home. "I could've killed them too," Hawke muttered darkly. "Should've killed 'em. Varrick, should I have killed 'em?"

"No, Hawke. Killing a bunch of templars in broad daylight in your uncle's house would have been a bad idea."

"But… they took Bethy!" There was a hint of a sob in her voice. Varrick was still searching for an appropriate answer when a tall, fair-haired human walked into the Hanged Man. With a sense of relief, Varrick waved Anders over to their table, and noticed with interest how abruptly Kennit's mood brightened when she saw the mage. "Anders!" She tried to jump to her feet to greet him, stumbled, and fell back in her chair with a thump. "Varrick was buying me a drink…" her brow furrowed in thought, "or… a couple drinks…"

"Time to take her home, Blondie," Varrick suggested.

"I see that," Anders replied to one or both of them. He held out a hand to Hawke, "Come on, Kennit."

This time, with Anders' help, she managed to get to her feet—and promptly fell against his chest, holding herself up by wrapping her arms around his neck. She gave a small squeak of surprise, then nuzzled her face against the feathered shoulder of his cloak, mumbling something that sounded like, "…fuzzy."

Forcing himself to breathe normally, Anders gently repositioned her at his side, supporting her with an arm around her waist. He nodded farewell to Varrick, and guided Kennit out of the tavern. On the street outside, she detached herself from Ander's support, declaring with slurred dignity that she could still walk. She made it only two or three steps before swaying, wobbling, and grabbing for his arm.

"You've got strong arms," she observed, hugging the bicep she was clinging to. "Must be from swinging that big, heavy staff around all the time," she giggled. "Big… staff…"

Anders swallowed the teasing answer he would have given to such a comment a year and a lifetime ago, and concentrated on not noticing the warm bosom pressed against his arm. "Let's just get you back to your uncle's house."

Kennit stopped in her tracks, pulling Anders to a halt by the arm she was still holding. "No! No, no, no; I can't go back there! My mother will be there!"

"Yes, probably," he replied, not understanding her protest.

"I can't see her—she can't see me—not now! Not like this!" He was still looking at her blankly, so she tried to explain. "I didn't protect Carver, and I didn't protect Bethany, and then I went out and got sitfashed…" she stopped and screwed up her face in concentration, "shitfa… I got drunk."

Of its own volition, Anders' free hand reached out and brushed back a lock of black hair that had fallen into her eyes. "I'm sure your mother will understand."

Kennit gazed up at him, a pleading look in her vivid green eyes. "I'm not," Suddenly she smiled, struck by a new idea. "I know! I can stay at your place. Just for tonight. Can't I?"

Anders blinked. Even without the unbearable strain such an arrangement would put on his own fragile self- control, there was no way he was taking Kennit to darktown in the middle of the night in this state.

"No," he replied shortly. "Come on."

Kennit remained rooted to the spot. It was remarkable; Anders thought with exasperation, that a woman too drunk to put one foot in front of the other without tripping over it could stand so stubbornly in one spot. "'M not going," she declared mulishly.

"So you're just going to spend the night in the middle of the street?" he demanded.

"If I have to."

His jaw clenched in frustration. "You can't stay out here all night."

She smiled hopefully up at him. "So I can come with you?"

Those shining green eyes would be the death of him. Anders grimaced and sighed. "Fine."

* * *

Fortunately the clinic seemed to have been well tended while Anders was in the deep roads. He guided Kennit to an empty cot near the back of the room, and she sat down with a grateful sigh. "I'm sorry it's not more…" he shrugged helplessly.

She gave him a wry smile. "It's better than Uncle Gamlen's house," On the other side of the room, a child cried out in his sleep and someone hurried to soothe him. "Cleaner, anyway," Kennit added. Her gaze dropped to her hands, resting in her lap. "Bethany was so looking forward to getting out of that place," she murmured, "but… not like this," she looked up at Anders, and there were tears caught in her dark eyelashes. He almost looked away, unable to bear the sight of her pain, but he forced himself to hold her gaze, offering his silent support and listening ear. Kennit went on. "We… Bethy and I… used to talk about what we would do if we were ever real noblewomen, with money and everything," she gave a short, harsh laugh. "Never thought it would actually happen. She… she always wanted a pink silk dress. Do you think… if I sent her one—at the Circle—would they let her have it?"

Anders shook his head sadly. "She'd probably be allowed to keep it, but not to wear it. Circle robes are enchanted to limit mages' ability to cast spells. They say it helps the mages control their power," He could not hide the bitterness in his voice at this, and Kennit snorted.

"Of course they do."

Her shoulders shook, and Anders foolishly sat beside her on the cot, putting a comforting arm around her. Without warning, she turned and buried her face in his chest, sobbing quietly. Unable to resist, Anders bent and softly kissed the top of her head. Under the smoky, beery tavern smell, her hair smelled like honeysuckle, and his arms tightened involuntarily around her, drawing her close. Gritting his teeth, he forced himself to breathe, to relax, to let go. As his arms loosened around her, Kennit looked up at his face, her eyes clouded with weeping, alcohol, and simple exhaustion. "Thank you, Anders," she whispered, and pressed a brief kiss to his lips before slumping against his shoulder, asleep.

Anders lowered her gently to the cot and tucked a rough, woolen blanket around her slender form before retreating to a chair against the wall. He did not sleep that night, and the next morning, when Kennit rose to return, somewhat sheepishly to her family, he could still taste the salt of her tears on his lips.


	2. Chapter 2

Aveline's fingers tightened around the report til the paper tore. She did not need to read it again; she had already memorized its contents… just like the contents of the three other reports that had been filed this week alone. With a growl of frustration, she threw the nearest hard object to hand—a sliver inkpot embossed with the viscount's seal—at the wall. Slender, tanned fingers caught the object before it could reach its mark, however, and Aveline tried to hide her surprise at the sight of the young woman who had certainly _not_ been sitting on her desk a moment ago. She must have failed, for Hawke smirked.

"Nice to see you don't _always_ know where I am," the rogue observed smugly. "So why did you call me here? Are the inkpots of Kirkwall staging a rebellion? Should I watch out for assassination attempts from my pens and paper too? Or is it something to do with…" she glanced down at the paperwork she was sitting on, "… a requisition order for twenty bushels of potatoes, to be signed in triplicate, and copies hand delivered to both the viscount's and seneschal's offices by Thursday… Maker! I'd throw things too."

Aveline sighed. "I'll handle the paperwork—I don't want to see how well you can forge my signature," Hawke grinned. "There's something else I need your help with."

"Please tell me it doesn't involve potatoes."

Aveline resisted the urge to choke her friend. "My guards have been reporting strange things happening at the docks. Shipping crates going missing, people being attacked—but no one ever sees it happen. I've tried doubling and tripling the guard on that patrol, but it doesn't make a difference. Even the victims of the attacks don't seem to know what their attackers looked like, and last night a merchant was found dead. My men are no cowards, Hawke, but they're afraid. They can't fight what they can't see."

Hawke's eyebrows rose. "And you think I can? I'm flattered, but I'm not sure I'll live up to your expectations."

Aveline shook her head. "It may sound like I'm asking you to fight ghosts, but I'm not. Until last night, all the crimes have been petty; thefts and beatings don't really seem worth crossing the veil for. I'm convinced that whoever is behind this is as mortal as you or I; they just use methods the city guard are not trained to deal with."

"So now you need someone familiar with… unconventional fighting styles," Hawke was smirking again. Aveline refused to be antagonized by the rogue's mocking tone. She just nodded shortly. "Will you do it?"  
Hawke shrugged. "I'll look into it. This merchant who was killed… who was he?"

"I can give you a name: Seras Anterral, but I don't know that it will do you much good. He only arrived in Kirkwall yesterday morning," Aveline frowned. "_Not_ the kind of welcome we want to give visitors to the city."

"I'll see what I can find," Hawke hopped down from the desk and headed for the door, but Aveline stopped her with an outstretched hand. Hawke gave the guard captain a look of wide-eyed innocence, but Aveline merely snapped her fingers and held out her hand again. With a rueful smile, Hawke shrugged and dropped the silver inkpot in Aveline's palm before turning and disappearing up the stairs.

When she was sure the rogue was truly gone, Aveline dropped wearily into her chair and began signing requisition forms.


	3. Chapter 3

Note: Sorry I didn't finish this as soon as I intended. School and real life kept happening. Also this chapter could be seen as having a borderline "M" rating for... well... Isabela.

* * *

"And the Angel of Death. The hand is over—"

"Wait a minute," Hawke's hand shot out and took the card Isabela was trying to place face-up on the table. She turned it over to reveal a bright red-and-white knotwork pattern. The backs of the other cards were solid blue. "Isabela," She shook her head chidingly. "You couldn't even try to match my deck? Draw again, Merril."

The little elf glanced, wide-eyed, from Hawke to Isabela and back. "But why would she…?"

Hawke gave the pirate a long calculating look before answering. "She wants the hand to end early. My guess is she's got a good hand but not a strong one. She doesn't want to give you a chance to draw something better. Take a card." Merril obeyed, and Hawke grinned. "Oh you want to hang on to that one! Here, discard…" she paused, then pointed to another card in Merril's hand, "… this one."

Merril's face fell. "Oh but I liked that one," she protested. "It's pretty. Why is a dead man better than a rose bush?"

Hawke chuckled. "Trust me. It's better. Your turn, Isabella."

Merril and Isabela each drew and discarded two more cards before the real Angel of Death card at last showed his skeletal face and they had to turn over their hands.

"Serpents of Honor and Deceit, and Daggers of Despair and Avarice," Isabela fanned out her cards on the table and sat back coolly in her chair.

Merril spread out her own cards awkwardly. "Well, I've got the Sword of Death, the Dagger of Death, the, um, Serpent of Death, and this… uh… is that a _bell_ of death?"

"Cup of Death," Hawke put in helpfully. "You've got it upside down."

The elf twisted her head sideways and squinted at the card. "Oh I see! You're right. It's… sort of a grim hand," she added, almost apologetically.

"Still beats two pair," Hawke replied smugly. "Doesn't it, Isabela?"

A brief look of annoyance crossed the pirate's face, but then she shrugged, feigning indifference. "Beginner's luck," she unclasped the golden stud from her lower lip and tossed it carelessly onto the table before swaying gracefully back to the bar. "Though I don't know what you want _this_ for."

"Thank you!" Merril chirped brightly at her departing back, then turned to Hawke with a puzzled frown. "Why _did_ I want it?"

Hawke waited until the other rogue was well out of earshot before leaning over and whispering conspiratorially, "Because Varric bet me a silver I couldn't get it from her. Come on; let's go make him pay up."

Merril giggled and followed her friend to Varric's suite.

_I knew her the moment she walked into the tavern. We had never met, but I knew her by the swagger in her walk and the gleam in her eye. So when she approached my table, I greeted her by name. "Hello, Trouble,"…_

"Hey Varric!"

Lost in the world of the as-yet-unnamed guardsman and his troublesome female companion, Varric jumped slightly at Hawke's boisterous greeting, and his arm jerked, sending a jagged black line of ink skidding across the page. He sighed and looked up to see his friend leaning on the doorframe and grinning broadly, Merril peeking around her shoulder with a shy smile. Varric could not help but chuckle. "I know that look. What've you done now, Hawke?"

She tossed something small and glittering towards him, and he automatically reached out and caught the thing which clinked heavily against his rings.

The dwarf examined the lip stud with raised brows, then whistled softly. "You have _got_ to tell me how you got your hands on that."

"No I don't," she replied smugly. "That was never part of the bet. Now if it was for _two_ silvers…"

Varric sighed. "Why do you do this to me, Hawke? You're going to be one of the richest women in Kirkwall!"

Hawke shrugged. "I know. I tried telling one of the merchants in Hightown the same thing. He didn't seem to care," she shrugged then, and turned as if to walk away. "… but if you don't want to hear how I got it…"

"Fine… fine!" Varric interrupted quickly, digging into his coin pouch. "Some friend you are," he pretended to grumble. "Don't know what you're even going to spend it on…"

"Soap," Hawke replied promptly. "Have you seen where I'm staying? First thing I'm going to do when that contact of yours comes through with our money is get Mother a better place to live. Maybe we'll move to Hightown"

Varric shook his head. "You, Hawke? In Hightown? Now that's a scary thought," He passed her the coins. "All right; now tell."

Hawke leaned back, resting her hip on the table, her attention apparently focused on the silver coin dancing across her knuckles, a small smile tugging at the corners of her mouth as she began to speak. "So, there I was, minding my own business, teaching Merril here to play Wicked Grace, when Isabela walks up…"

"And then I won it from her," Merril piped up excitedly. "With cards!"

Hawke shot the elf a sharp look. "I was getting to that part."

Varric merely laughed. "Why don't you both leave the storytelling to me?"

Hawke smiled sweetly. "Speaking of things you're good at, Varric, do you think you could find out about someone for me?"

The dwarf drew himself up in mock indignation. "What? Did you come in here to take my money _and_ insult me? Do I _think_ I can find out about someone? What kind of a question is that?"

The rogue giggled. "It's a merchant down by the docks. It seems he was killed last night right under the noses of some of Aveline's guardsmen, but they don't have any leads. I thought maybe if there was anyone here in Kirkwall who knew him or knew why someone wanted him dead it might help. His name was Seras Anterral."

"Anterral?" Drawn by the sound of her friends' voices, Isabela had heard the last few words of the conversation. "Is Hastlen still using that old alias?"

Hawke shrugged. "If he was using it last night, he isn't anymore. Aveline wants me to find out who murdered someone who was using that name."

"That's a shame," Isabela remarked with slightly less concern than she would have shown if Corff had announced that the Hanged Man had run out of beer nuts. At the questioning looks of the others she explained, "Torv Hastlen may have been an ass, but the man knew how to use his tongue."

Hawke gave a loud snort of laughter at that, Varric buried his face in his hands with a sigh, and Merril looked confused. "Use his tongue for what?"

"Trust me, Daisy, you don't want to know," Varric answered quickly, before Hawke or Isabela could say anything more. "All right then; I'll see what there is to know about Seras Anterral _and_ Torv Hastlen."

"Thanks, Varric," Hawke shot him her most brilliant smile. "What would I do without you?"

"Stop taking my things, maybe?" Isabela suggested, snatching the lip stud from where Varric had set it on the table.


	4. Chapter 4

The templar standing next to the door of the Hanged Man looked as acutely uncomfortable as a man can look with his face completely obscured by a helmet. At the sight of him, Hawke, who had been descending the stairs to the main floor of the tavern, stopped so abruptly that Merril bounced off the rogue's back with a startled squeak.

"Wonder how Tinskirt plans to drink with his helmet on," Hawke commented in a quiet, mocking tone.

"Oh sod," Varric muttered from behind her, his hand already on Bianca's stock.

"You know, Varric, I've noticed something," Hawke observed in a tone designed to carry across the Hanged Man's crowded main room.

"Keep me out of this, would you, Hawke," the dwarf pleaded.

But she went on as though she had not heard him, "The templars wear helmets, the Qunari Arvaarad have those steel facemasks... I wonder- is it out of shame or fear that all mage hunters feel the need to hide their faces?"

The templar did not seem to react to the comment, but perhaps that was only because it would have been impossible for him to look more unhappy than he had before Hawke spoke.

At one of the tables near the stairs a large, ruddy-faced dockworker got unsteadily to his feet and glared at Hawke. "Here now," he protested loudly, "you'll not be comparing our lads with those filthy heathen oxmen!"

A smirk lifted the corner of Hawke's mouth, and Varric sighed in resignation. The young woman strode slowly and deliberately over to the table, and gazed skeptically up into the man's broad, angry face. "And just who's going to stop me, Tiny? You?" She jabbed a finger into his pudgy chest, then drew back, wrinkling her nose. "And you hardly have the right to call anyone 'filthy'."

With a snarl, the fat man drew back a heavy fist and struck a tremendous blow to the air where Hawke's face had been a moment before. Meeting no resistance, he overbalanced and, with the help of Isabella's well-placed boot, went sprawling across the table to the great dismay of his fellows whose drinks he overturned.

Varric watched with a mixture of awe and dismay as Hawke transformed the congenial tavern into something like a beer-soaked battlefield. He was grateful to see that neither she nor Isabella seemed to be using the blades of their daggers, and Merril, standing wide-eyed against the wall, was keeping her disturbingly destructive magic out of the fight altogether. Keeping his head down, and clearing a path with the butt of his crossbow when necessary, Varric shoved, dodged, and occasionally punched his way to the door while Merril daintily edged along the wall to the same destination. Isabella soon joined them, cradling somebody else's drink which she had rescued from the fray. A moment later, a bruised and grinning Hawke arrived at the door, and the four friends slipped out into the cool, and relatively quiet air of the Lowtown streets.

"Was that a real brawl?" Merril asked wonderingly as soon as they were outside.

Hawke's rapidly swelling lips turned up in a grin. "Yes, Merril. Your first real bar fight. How did you like it?"

"Well it was very exciting," the little elf replied earnestly.

Hawke's answering chuckle died on her lips, and she reached for her daggers as she saw the templar from inside the bar waiting on the side of the street.

"Ser Hawke?" The man's voice was hesitant, and unexpectedly young.

Hawke sketched a mocking bow, her blades at the ready. "Ser Buckethead."

The templar ignored her insulting tone. "My name is Ser Simon. I... was told you could help me."

"I very much doubt that." Hawke sheathed her daggers and turned away dismissively.

He did not follow, but neither did he give up. "My sister is a mage."

Hawke stopped walking, but did not turn.

"She is in the Gallows."

Hawke's jaw clenched. "You have my condolences, Serrah. So is mine."

"I know," Ser Simon removed his helmet awkwardly, revealing shaggy brown hair and a round, almost childlike face. "Bethany said I should come find you. Templars are not permitted to serve in the same Circles as their mage family members. I have been able to hide my connection to Brooke until now, but the Knight Commander is becoming suspicious. I fear she will separate us."

Hawke sighed and turned to face him. "From all I've heard about the Kirkwall Circle, perhaps it would be better for your sister to be transferred somewhere else."

"And what if she is not?" he persisted. "What if I am transferred to another Circle, and she is left here in Kirkwall with no one to protect her? Brooke is not like your sister. Bethany is strong, clever..." he flushed, then hurried on, "Brooke is smart, but she doesn't know how to deal with people. Without someone to cover for her and tell her when to hold her tongue, she won't survive in the Circle."

There was something in the templar's tone when he talked about Bethany that made Hawke's stomach twist unpleasantly, but she couldn't bring herself to abandon a mage to the Gallows. "What is it you think I can do for your sister?"

Simon sighed faintly as if he had been holding his breath. "I can get her out of the Gallows and as far as the caves on the Wounded Coast, but of course any ship captains I would trust to transport an apostate mage wouldn't talk to a templar about it."

Hawke snorted. "I would imagine not. How do you know I'm any different?"

"I know your sister; I know I can trust you. I didn't know if you would listen to me, but I had to try. You're my last hope."

Isabella rolled her eyes at the boy's earnest tone. "You do know 'last hopes' don't come cheap, right?"

He nodded. "I know. I've... known for some time that I'd have to get Brooke out of Kirkwall eventually. I've been saving... I can pay you fifty sovereigns."

"No."

Simon made a strangled sound of dismay, and Isabella's eyes widened in shock. "What do you mean, no?" she hissed in Hawke's ear, but Hawke ignored the pirate.

"I won't help you for fifty sovereigns," she explained, coolly, "but I'll do it for a promise."

Simon looked dazed. "A... promise?"

"Bring your sister to the caves three nights from now," Hawke instructed. "If Bethany is with her, I will make sure they both get out of Kirkwall safely."

The young templar drew a shaky breath and nodded. "I understand. I will do as you ask," and with that he put his helmet back on and all but ran in the direction of the Gallows.

Isabella watched him go, her lips pursed in a dissatisfied pout. "You could've taken the money too, you know."


End file.
